


Pastries and Paperback Novels

by blushing_phan



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 15:05:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8213492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blushing_phan/pseuds/blushing_phan
Summary: Sweetie Pie's bakery is located on a beautiful street corner in central London. Business is booming and, with Christmas right around the corner, Phil Lester could not be more pleased with how his life is going. Directly next door, to the right and only a hop and a skip away is The Hobbit Hole, a used bookshop owned by an intriguing, shy young man named Dan. With the indisputable likelihood of a lonely Christmas looming above him, Phil decides to befriend timid little Dan in the hopes of finally finding something he's always wanted: A best friend.





	1. Let It Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who definitely should NOT be starting ANOTHER chaptered fic right in the middle of writing What's Up, Buttercup? You guessed it, it's me! Anyways, I've have this fic written for a while, and I wrote it for a friend on tumblr (her tumblr is www.blueberrylester.tumblr.com, casual spon.), and I couldn't seem to find a way to end it, so I chopped it in half and now it's going to be multi-chaptered. Yay! Anyways, I hope you enjoy and feedback is always, always welcomed, wanted, and encouraged! 
> 
> Sidenote: I have no idea why I'm so enamored with the idea of Phil being a shop owner.

One of the most common misconceptions to circulate and diffuse throughout the lore and history of humanity is simply that a miracle, to truly be miraculous, must have such an extensive and fierce impact that it alters the course of the universe itself.

In truth, there are miracles occurring in this very moment, in any and every niche and nook you could possibly imagine. A baby bird spreads its wings for the very first time and takes flight. A young girl settles the tip of a pen against the smooth, empty plane of a blank sheet of paper. Her masterpiece is just beginning. A father receives a phone call from a company after months and months of unemployment; his luck is changing. 

Each of these things, while they are small, and, to us, insignificant happenings, is a miracle in its own right. 

Our story, however, is not that of a fearless little sparrow or an aspiring young artist. In fact, the miracle in this story happens in a rather unassuming corner of a snow-dusted London, on a sleepy morning just a handful of days before Christmas. 

The wind nipped at Phil’s nose and the tips of his ears, but he didn't mind it. Phil wasn't bothered by much, really, especially when the world around around him glittered with frost and fairy lights twinkled merrily here and there, like strings of fallen stars. A particularly chilly gust ruffled his hair from behind, and Phil, where most would have hunched deeper inside of their coats and quickened their pace, tipped his head back and laughed. 

“Jack Frost is flirting with me today,” he giggled aloud, to nobody in particular. With Christmas so near and the distinct impression that London had transformed into a city made of gingerbread and icing sugar, it was nearly impossible to dampen the spirits of one so sprightly and bright. 

It had been nearly an entire year since the opening of Phil’s bakery, appropriately named Sweetie Pie’s, and it's rapidly increasing success had him constantly over the moon. The bakery was his pride and joy; every little detail, from the dreamy blue walls to the detailing on the smushy yellow chairs clustered around little round tables near the windows, had come from a vision he'd harbored for a long as he could remember. The obvious time and affection that had been poured into it was only one reason the bakery attracted customers. 

The icing on the cake (quite literally) was Phil’s baking. 

It was another labor of love that Phil had spent years upon years perfecting. His interest in the art of baking had been piqued by his mother and the chilly November mornings, when the world was gentler and more forgiving, when she would rouse him early and carry him into the kitchen to bake. He stood atop a small wooden stool, and even then he was still small enough to rest his head on his mother’s hip while her steady hands measured meticulous amounts of flour and confectioners sugar. When Phil had asked why she was so careful with the baking, her response was simply that she loved it. 

“But why do you love it?” 

“Phillip, you must remember always” she told him, as she lifted him up to sit on the counter top, beside the plate of still-cooling blueberry scones. “That everything deserves to be loved by somebody.” 

As Phil wandered past the storefront of the bakery, towards the door, he paused briefly to gaze at the then-empty display behind the glass and the darkened room beyond, and he wondered what might have become of him had he not been taught to love so fiercely and be passionate. Would he be sat behind some desk in some office, typing away at some document that meant less than nothing to him, while the seconds and minutes ticked away into hours and days, then years of wasted time? The thought was colder than the biting wind, and Phil cringed both internally and externally. 

He had failed to notice the presence of another human being until he was unlocking the doors, and even then, he was only alerted by the tinkling sound of keys jangling together. The owner of the used bookshop that occupied the building just next door to his bakery stood, shivering and fumbling with the ring of keys in his hands which he had evidently dropped. Phil couldn't help but smile; he was newer to the block than Phil was, and Phil had only seen him a handful of times, two of which had involved him staring longingly at the treats in the display window through the glass, only to hurry off, flustered, when he caught Phil watching him. His dark hair was windswept and a little bit messy, his cheeks and the tip of his nose were flushed pink from the cold, and Phil thought he was beautiful. 

But he didn't know his name. “Hullo,” Phil said gently, although he immediately felt guilty when the boy gave a start, causing him to drop his keys again. “I’m sorry, I didn't mean to make you jump,” he continued, closing the gap between them in a few strides and taking the keys from the ground. 

When he held them out, the boy looked at them, almost in mistrust, before looking at Phil. Now that they were nearer together and Phil could see his face properly, he noticed a smattering of beauty marks that dotted his cheeks and a split down the middle of his lower lip, probably due to the cold. 

After a moment, he took the keys, but continued to stay quiet. 

“I’m Phil,” Phil said, offering out a hand garnished with a warm smile that touched his eyes, and, seemingly, set every fiber of his being aglow. It was the sort of smile that was so real and so present, there was no resisting the urge to smile back. 

When the boy’s lips quirked up timidly, the smooth, rounded surface of his cheeks divoted inwards, and Phil’s eyes softened visibly. 

“Dan.” 

_Dan_. Phil thought, wondering if it were short for Daniel or if he ever went by Danny. _It suits him._

Dan was still shuddering and shivering visibly, and when he slid his hand into Phil’s to accept the handshake, his fingers were freezing to the touch. 

“It's lovely to finally meet you,” Phil continued, trying his best to prevent the conversation from straying into awkwardness. 

Lowering his eyes a little bit, Dan smiled again. “It's lovely to meet you, too.” An irrepressible silence overcame them, and it was only then that Phil realized he still had Dan’s hand held tightly in his own. Dan, apparently, came to this same realization at that particular moment as well, because he pulled away quickly, his eyes a little rounder and his face flushing from pink to red. 

Phil felt his own complexion rosying up, and he watched as Dan took a couple to steps backwards, stammering a goodbye. Suppressing giggles that were nothing if not fond, Phil waved goodbye and turned to push open the door to the bakery. Behind him, he heard the sound of keys tumbling to the pavement. 

Phil didn’t think about Dan again until well after the workday had begun. Around lunchtime, after the morning influx of late-to-work businesswomen grabbing last-minute bagels and leisurely, school-bound teenagers looking to kill time by purchasing muffins thinned out, Phil set to work in the kitchen. 

Securing his apron around his waist with a neat little bow, he made his way to the pantry to collect the ingredients for the shop’s best-selling treat: blueberry scones. The very same recipe that he and his mother followed together all those years ago. 

Wrist-deep in the mixture of flour, sugar, baking powder, and butter, Phil used his hands, which were long, pale, slender things that often spurred bouts in insecurity and clumsiness, to knead the ingredients together into a mealy substance. As his hands did the effortless work, Phil’s mind began to wander, as it often did. He thought about the coming holidays, which, for the first time in his entire 28 years, he would be spending by himself. His parents were to be off at a ski resort in New Zealand and his brother would be visiting his girlfriend’s family, and, since he had only been in London for the amount of time that she shop had been open, he hadn’t made many friends, save the meager acquaintanceships he had developed with the people who occupied the flats on either side of his own. 

_I really should try and spread my wings a little bit_ , Phil thought, imagining late nights of watching Game of Thrones and eating pizza, sharing bottles of Rosé and decorating cookies, maybe even sharing blankets and telling secrets. It was something he longed to have, a best friend, a companion. 

With a sigh, Phil washed his hands and dried them thoroughly before adding the wet ingredients to the mixture in the bowl. As he measured out sour cream and cracked eggs with practiced precision, he couldn’t help but feel just a teensy bit lonely. It wasn’t until he was shaping the dough and spacing out the unbaked-scones on a baking sheet that the early-morning encounter came back to him. 

Struck with an idea, Phil felt the itty bitty bit of sadness that had developed in the pit of his tummy evaporate like rain in the light of his revelation. 

Hurriedly, he put the scones into the oven and set the timer, then busied himself by scrubbing down the counter tops and sweeping up the flour that dusted the floor like powdery snow, simply to prevent himself from hovering around the timer and becoming impatient. 

The seventeen minutes passed purposefully slow, and Phil, so focused on his plan and buzzing with so much excitement as a result, nearly attempted to fish the baking sheet out of the 204 degree oven with his bare hands. After nearly scalding himself, locating the oven mitts, and putting them to proper use, Phil eventually extracted the pastries from the oven and transferred them to the cooling rack, then, against his proper judgement due to the wintry exterior conditions of the world, turned on the ceiling fan to cool them faster. 

Half an hour later, nearly 1 o’clock in the afternoon, Phil, swathed in his winter coat, flipped the sign on the front door that read ‘Gone for lunch!’, then made his way next door, a little white box cradled in his arms. He paused only for a moment in front of the frosted glass door of Dan’s bookshop (which, Phil noted warmly, was called The Hobbit Hole); it wasn’t like him to feel nervous due to human interaction. He’d been quite timid when he was younger, but the older he got, the more intrepid he became and he found himself opening up much easier. Today, however, standing in the freezing conditions of wintery London, clutching a box, his heart was fluttering against his ribs like a canary in a cage. Sucking in a deep breath that froze over his insides, Phil steeled his nerves and pushed the door open. 

He was greeted by the pleasant chiming of a bell and the smell of parchment and ink. There was a little fireplace located on the wall to Phil’s right, and a fire crackled merrily within it, giving the whole place a pleasant, buttery sort of warmth that wrapped around Phil like a wooly sweater. The remaining three walls were lined with books, literally from floor to ceiling, and there was an old wooden coffee table surrounded by three armchairs and a loveseat in the center of the room. The till was situated caddy corner to the left, and behind it sat Dan, who had previously been scribbling furiously in a small journal, but was now staring wide-eyed at Phil, startled by the tinkling bell. 

“Hullo,” Phil began, giving Dan a tentative smile, before deciding that trying to speak to Dan with what was essentially the entire shop between them would be rude, and so he crossed to where Dan sat, trying to ignore the wobbling in his knees. Dan was still only staring at him, although Phil had noticed that as soon as he’d begun to approach, Dan shut his notebook and folded his arms over it, almost protectively. 

_Must be personal_ , he thought, too polite to pry. 

“I noticed, a few times, I think, that when you pass the bakery windows, you always stop to look at the scones,” he said, rubbing one finger against the corner of the box, before holding it out to Dan. “So, I brought you some.” 

Dan’s eyes moved from Phil’s face to the white box, the to his own hands as a blossom of color bloomed on his cheeks like a poinsettia. Slowly, he accepted the container before lifting the lid and taking a little sniff of the beautiful pastries inside of it. His eyes fluttered closed and he seemed helpless against the smile that tugged at his mouth. 

“Thank you,” he said, and Phil noted his posh-like tone with pleasure; it was irresistibly endearing. 

“You’ve got so many books,” said Phil, moving closer to the nearest wall and running his thumb over a row of spines, almost overwhelmed by the sheer number of titles to read. 

To his surprise, Dan laughed, a gentle sort of noise, like that of fluttering wings. “Well, it is a bookshop,” he said, brown eyes shining gold. 

Phil, recognizing playful banter, reciprocated by poking out his tongue, to which Dan responded by giggling behind his hand. 

_He’s so cute,_ , Phil thought tenderly, as he watched the corners of Dan’s eyes crinkle with joy. His eyes traveled this way and that, reassuring himself that the shop was empty before he casually checked for his wallet in his back pocket. 

“Are you on lunch right now?” Phil asked, and when Dan nodded, it suddenly made perfect sense that someone entering the shop had startled Dan, when there was a sign on the door indicating that he was on break. 

Dan’s eyes moved to the clock mounted above the fireplace. “For another 45 minutes or so.” 

“Perfect,” Phil beamed, before nodding his head towards the door. “How about lunch?” 

See, a miracle doesn’t have to alter the course of history itself to be a miracle. Sometimes, they sneak up on you and explode like fireworks, filling the atmosphere with stars. Other times, they make themselves known very quietly, coaxing you along with the promise of something great. But this miracle, the miracle of round blue eyes meeting soft brown ones, of loud laughter late into the night and wine-soaked first kisses, is only just beginning.


	2. Walking In A Winter Wonderland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an update! Sorry I've been absent recently, school apparently decided it was time to enter Impossible Mode, so I've been pretty busy crying and only getting about 4 hours of sleep a night, but I finally got the second chapter written! I go on winter break on Thursday, so be expecting lots of fic updates over the next month or so! To anybody who reads What's Up, Buttercup?, that will be updated very, very soon as well! Thank you a zillion times over for taking the time to read my writing, and, as always, comments and critiques are always wanted, welcomed, and encouraged! Love you guys!

“You shouldn’t try to shut it out, you know,” Phil said matter-of-factly, as he and Dan walked, side-by-side, their footsteps in sync (purposefully; Phil had spent at least five minutes watching Dan’s feet in order to fall into step with him), against the blustery winter wind.

Lunch together had been pleasant; Phil had found that he and Dan clicked with almost perfect ease. The main topic of conversation had been their respective businesses and how each of them had come to find themselves in London. He learned that Dan hailed from Wokingham and lived by himself in a little flat on the outskirts of the main city and that his passion for literature didn't halt at simply selling novels; he wrote them, too. 

“What do you mean?” Dan, who had his chin tucked into his coat with the hood over his head, asked. All that could be seen of him was the rosy tip of his cold nose and his dark, dark eyes. 

Phil tossed his own fur-lined hood off of his head and tipped his head back.“The cold!” The eyes poking out of Dan’s coat blinked in surprise. “You’re loony! It’s absolutely freezing!” 

“That’s Jack Frost! He’s only wanting to play with you, you know!” 

As if only to prove Phil’s point, a single snowflake cleared the edge of Dan’s hood and landed lightly on his nose. 

“He gave you a kiss!” Phil trilled, watching in delight as Dan blushed hot and the snowflake melted into a little droplet of water against his skin. 

With his sleeves pulled over the heel of his hands, Dan reached up to wipe the condensation off of his face, and Phil took the opportunity to take his hands, which were un-mittened and essentially numb to the cold, and dart them into Dan’s hood, clasping them to either side of Dan’s neck. 

Caught off guard, Dan gave a shout of surprise as a thrill of icy cold shot down his spine and into his fingers and toes. Before he could react, however, Phil was darting away. Flustered, Dan was slow to start pursuing Phil, who was already halfway down the block towards their shared corner of the city. Thankfully, it was so snowy and blustery that the pavement wasn’t nearly as congested as it routinely was. Still, Dan was hesitant to draw attention to himself, and running like wild child through the streets of a busy city would most undoubtedly result in a few turned heads. As it was, Dan watched as many of the sparse pedestrians around him cast disapproving glances in Phil’s direction. 

To be quite fair, however, Phil could not have cared less; he was having the time of his life darting through the powdered sugar streets, and to supplement his pleasure, he cast a playful glance over his shoulder towards Dan, who was quickly disappearing behind him. 

Unfortunately for Phil, the moment he took his eyes off of the pavement in front of him, he happened across a patch of packed, hardened snow that had been trampled down by dozens and dozens of people hurrying to their destinations. Now, Phil was clumsy on his best days; he'd always felt as though his legs were too noodle-like and his feet much too big, as he often tripped over them. Adding slippery ice to the equation along with the increased momentum from the running made an accident almost inevitable. And so it was that Phil, the moment he stopped watching where he was going, made contact with the patch of ice and had no time to react before he slid a couple of inches, lost his footing, and fell flat on his bum. 

From several feet behind, Dan witnessed this demise and, with a slight panic, quickened his pace considerably. He made it to Phil in a matter of moments, his brow creased with worry as he hovered above him. Phil, still sprawled on the ground, tipped his head up and offered Dan a sheepish little smile, his face flushed. 

“Are you alright?” Dan asked, offering out one of his hands in order to help Phil to his feet. 

“Oh, I'm fine! I’m okay…” said Phil, his voice bright to mask the pain that was bouncing from his lower back to the tips of the toes on his left foot. He took Dan’s hand, which was unexpectedly and pleasantly warm, and allowed himself to be tugged to his feet. 

“Thank y- Ah!” he squeaked, as his leg gave out beneath him and he nearly fell to the ground for a second time. Fortunately, Dan still had a grip on him and so instead of tumbling back to the ground, he merely staggered against him. 

“Oh dear…” Dan mumbled, fumbling to keep Phil on his feet. “You’re hurt, aren’t you?” There was a genuine sort of worry in his tone that made Phil’s tummy feel like it was being tickled from the inside. 

“No, no! I’m fine! Right as rain! Peachy, really!” said Phil through his teeth, which were gritted against the pain that plagued his entire being as he tried once more to put weight on the left side of his body. When he attempted to take a step in the direction of the shop, though, it became clear to both he and Dan that he most certainly was not peachy as Dan rescued him for the third time. 

After a moment’s contemplation concerning how to solve the issue at hand, which was that Phil’s ability to walk was severely compromised and they were still a block or so away from their destination, Dan made an executive decision. 

“Alright, come here,” he said, before he leant down, put one arm behind the crook of Phil’s knees and the other around his shoulders and, quite literally, swept Phil off of his feet. Phil hardly had time to give a small squeal of protest, before he was all but forced to cling to Dan on account of the fact that Dan stood taller than 6’2 (Phil’s own height), even if only by a little. Breathless and startled, Phil looked up at Dan. For the first time, he got a good look at Dan’s eyes and he felt his lungs compress just a bit further; they were brown, his eyes, but there were so many layers of color that Phil could hardly begin to count them. There was a deep mahogany color that mingled magnificently with strands of light amber and chestnut, ringed in an incandescent composite of ivy-flecked bronze. All of these shades combined to give off a golden sort of aura that made Phil feel like the richest man in the world. 

“Is...is this okay?” Dan asked, sounding a little uncomfortable, though it was probably due to the strain that Phil’s weight subjected him to. Phil, who hadn’t realized that he had been staring but just a _smidgen_ too long, felt himself start to blush and averted his eyes, though he smiled a helplessly wide smile. 

“It’s...perfect.” 

Around 20 minutes later, after Dan had managed to carry Phil all the way without stopping and after Phil had only almost kicked someone once (by accident, of course), Dan was placing Phil in one of the smushy armchairs located in the middle of the bookshop as gently as he possibly could. He sat on the floor beside him, discreetly attempting to catch his breath while Phil removed the shoe and sock on his left foot to assess the damage. He whimpered; the very back of his heel was colored an ugly greenish-purple, bruised from the fall, and he knew, even without checking, that his tailbone was, at the very least, suffering the same fate. 

“Is everything okay?” Dan asked, the sweet distress re-entering his tone as he leaned up a little to see better. 

“It’s just a bruise...it’ll heal up fine,” Phil said dismissively, hoping to convince not only Dan, but himself. To enhance the believability, he tacked on a shining grin. 

Dan sucked on his lower lip, unsure. 

“I don’t think it’s wise to go back to the bakery today, though,” Phil sighed, feeling his heart wince at the mere mention of closing the shop with the day only half over. 

“You can stay here, if you’d like,” blurted out Dan, perhaps a little too quickly based on the way Phil giggled at him. “I mean...i-if you want to...y’know.” 

Phil entered a mental tug-of-war; he most definitely wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the day nestled in a cozy bookstore with a cute, interesting boy. However, he also hated the thought of being a burden or overstaying his welcome. 

“I...are you sure? I don’t want to cause any trouble,” he finally said, training his eyes on Dan and chewing on the inside of his cheek. 

“It’s settled then,” Dan grinned, before he climbed to his feet and went to switch the sign on his door to indicate that the store was open. “What do you like to read?” 

The question caught Phil by surprise. It had really been quite some time since he was able to sit and become completely immersed in a book, so he really had no idea. 

“I...I don’t really know,” he admitted as he slipped his shoe gingerly back on over his injured foot. 

Dan, who had already busied himself at the second bookshelf from the left, directly in front of Phil, seemed to give a knowing hum as his hands moved expertly among the spines of the books. After a few moments of searching, he selected a novel from amongst the hundreds on the shelves and moved to place it in Phil’s lap. 

“‘ _The Book Thief_ ’?” said Phil, his tone a little skeptical as he picked up the paperback novel and turned it over in his hands. Dan only nodded, his mouth curving into a knowing little smirk. 

“Okay...I’ll take your word for it, then,” 

Without another word, Dan made his way back behind his little till counter just as the bell above the door tinkled. 

“So, the narrator is Death? Like...personified Death?” 

“Mhm.” 

“...Does that mean that everybody is going to die?” 

“I’m not tell you anything.” 

“Is that a yes, then? If _Death_ is the narrator, then at least one of the characters is going to d-” 

“Just read the book, Phil.” 

“But-” 

_“Phil.”_

Phil ducked his head behind the open book to hide his laughter; secretly, he was completely absorbed by the novel clutched between his hands, but he’d started to miss the sound of Dan’s eloquent speech, so he decided to bug him a little. 

As silence settled over them again, Dan became once again immediately consumed by the journal sitting before him; every so often, a customer would wander in and browse around or ask questions, but it was, otherwise, a relatively peaceful afternoon. 

Around ten minutes to six, Dan closed his journal and placed his pen carefully behind his ear, then moved to the frosted glass door and turned the sign, indicating that he was closed. He turned his attention towards Phil, whose eyebrows were drawn together in concentration, his lower lip between his teeth. 

“So?” Dan spoke, and Phil gave a violent start, nearly dropping the book in the process. He looked around at Dan, bewildered. 

“So what?” he asked, trying his best to look miffed as Dan crossed to where he sat and nestled himself into one of the chairs, although he couldn’t help but notice that the sleeves of Dan’s sweater were a bit too long and covered his palms, which was painfully endearing. 

“So what do you think? About the book?” Dan clarified, his dark eyes alight with expectant excitement. 

Phil laughed, checking the number of the page he was on before he closed the book and ran his fingers over the shiny letters on the matte cover. “It’s beautiful.” 

This response seemed to please Dan, as he sat up a little bit straighter and his smile beamed a little brighter. A flush of heat found itself blossoming on Phil’s face; Dan was so cute and Phil was so smitten with him that it was on the cusp of embarrassing. 

“Oh!” Dan said, suddenly getting to his feet and making his way back to the counter. Phil followed him with his eyes, curious, until he watch Dan retrieve the little white box with the blueberry scones tucked inside. “I nearly forgot!” 

As he sat back down, Phil suddenly felt a flutter of nerves cluster in his belly. What if Dan didn’t like them? What if he thought that they weren’t good at all, but he was too polite to say so and so Phil would be forced to watch as Dan pretended to like his pastries when he obviously didn’t? And then, to avoid any awkward encounters, Dan never spoke to him again? Then Phil would never- 

“Oh, wow…” Dan whispered, as he brushed the crumbs from around his mouth, his eyes trained on the now-bitten scone that he held delicately between his fingers. “Phil...those are...lovely…” A strange combination of relief and bashful pleasure washed over Phil, who giggled behind his hands in response; he heard rather often how nice his baking was, but it sounded so much sweeter from Dan’s mouth. 

After a few tentative tests, Phil came to the conclusion that he had regained his ability to walk. Although he limped a little bit, he was able to move about freely and, with more than a little bit of remorse, knew it was time to depart from Dan’s company. 

As Dan locked the door to the book shop, Phil stood beside him with all of his weight awkwardly on the right side of his body to avoid causing more damage. _The Book Thief_ was tucked beneath his arm; Dan had insisted that he take it so that he could finish it, and Phil figured that it would serve as another reason to stop by a see Dan again, so he obliged. Dan accompanied him the seven foot journey to the bakery’s door, which was where they said their goodbyes. 

“Thank you,” he said, holding up the box between his hands. “For the sweets. And for making today such an...interesting day.” 

Phil laughed. “I’m going to assume that was meant to be a compliment. Thank _you_ for the book, and for going out to lunch with me, and- well, everything else.” He watched as Dan lowered his eyes and his smiled, resisting the urge to reach out and brush his thumb over his dimple. 

“See you tomorrow then?” Phil said, not really wanting to part but eager to avoid any awkward relapses, and Dan nodded swiftly. 

“Have a lovely evening, Phil,” he said, in his impossibly gentle way, before he turned and began making his way back in the other direction. Phil fished his keys out of his pocket and busied himself with checking the lock, before he was struck with an idea. He stooped down and gathered two handfuls of snow. He molded it into a shimmering, lopsided ball, which he tossed with all his might in Dan’s direction. Phil wasn’t very coordinated, something that he now being constantly reminded of by the pain his his left heel, and so he was a little shocked when the snowball hit Dan square in the shoulder, where it supernovaed like a glittering which star. Dan spun around quickly. “What on Earth was that for?” 

“‘A snowball in the back is surely the perfect beginning to a lasting friendship,’”


End file.
